


Dramatis Personae

by FakePlastikTrees



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:38:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakePlastikTrees/pseuds/FakePlastikTrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened after dinner in 1x13</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dramatis Personae

**Author's Note:**

> I have not written hetero sex in a long time. And it is also my first Hannibal fic, so please be kind.

“May I?”

He is beyond polite even when his breath is bated and his pupils appear to be dilated with lust.

His hands are slender--strong--and steady as ever. They hover just a fraction of an inch out of reach until she nods her head yes.

It always begins this way. Because they don’t frequent each other sexually. Not very often.

He touches her hips, bracing them with both hands. Her frame is small, however Hannibal has never thought of Bedelia as minute. Her stature always seemed to tower over everyone and seemed to reach Hannibal just perfectly. She is assertive, but not demeaning. Intelligent and attentive but not overbearing.

She has the ability to genuinely appreciate the finer things in life with a level of grace that is difficult to locate in others.

Hannibal respects Bedelia, not only professionally, but personally, and not just because she so happens to possess damaging knowledge concerning him. Certainly, that is something to of value but it isn’t necessarily a personal asset.

He flattens his palms over her bottom, taking his time to take in the shape of her through the fabric of her skirt and her breath becomes sharp as she inhales and exhales through her nose.

Her waist is narrow--her frame is petite in general but it is a sensual, feminine body she dresses with elegance and class.

His own heart begins to beat faster, his blood pumps more furiously. His hands trail up her ribcage, the silk of her blouse making the teasing all the more enjoyable--the more excruciating--for both involved.

His palms press greedily to her breasts, they knead and nearly squeeze the mounds, but not yet.

“That’s enough,” she says evenly, her tone ever steady, ever commanding without being demanding.

Hannibal’s hands fall away reluctantly, his disappointment evident only in his growing erection, she notices but doesn’t stare.

“Sit,” she says.

The table is still set, the Strawberries Arnaud are only half eaten and the Cabernet Sauvignon is only residue on the bottle. Normally, he would insist upon cleaning up, but he is willing to consent to some disorder if only tonight. It is a celebration of sorts after all.

He turns his chair out and takes a seat. She watches him for a moment, sipping the rest of the wine in her glass, meanwhile Mozart’s String Quartet Number 14 plays at a perfected level, filling Bedelia’s home with an air of distinguished attitude that is solely her own.

Her eyes seem to his way as she sets her glass down and then proceeds to round the dinner table in his direction.

Her steps are calculated, designed to test his patience. He sits up straight and rests his arms on the wooden armrests, his feet flat on the floor--hard as he’s ever been until finally, her knees graze his.

She reaches behind him, her hand draped in a firm fist over the back of his seat, her face only inches from his, returning the smirk he offers her as she reaches between them to undo his slacks, stopping at the zipper.

“Would you mind very much if we did this on the table? I’ve changed my mind.”

He begins to move, but he knows better than that so he tilts his chin in a questioning manner.

“You may touch me,” She says.

She sits on the edge of the table, towards the far end where the remains of their dinner will go undisturbed.

She will give him that much at the very least.

When they first kiss, she leads. It is first window and Hannibal discretely waits, allowing her to pull him gradually, first with chaste, dry kisses, then with a teasing tongue to the roof of his mouth that elicits a low, wanton groan he does not apologize for, to robbing, demanding kisses she invites him into with a moan of her own and a nip to his bottom lip that almost breaks the skin. He enjoys this and his body grows rigid with the intensity of his self control--his respect for her allowance to take over--permission which she has not granted just yet, but he feels it coming as strongly as he feels the heady taste of wine on her tongue.

She spreads her thighs for him and arches her back as he steps between them, his large frame pushing them wider apart than anticipated.

Promptly enough, his hand is up her skirt--having done away with her underwear-- and she’s winded, furthermore she’s fisted both hands into his shirt, inside his jacket. He can feel the fading lines of the scratches she’s left there in her passion and it spurs him on for a moment where he nearly goes for her neck, but regains control of himself quickly enough and latches onto her chest instead. She’s sensitive about her neck, refuses to let him see it let alone touch it.

The marks from her attack are fading, but it’s a matter of respect and on some level, obedience, a concept Hannibal more than seldom has trouble with.

His breath is hot on her breast when he wraps his lips around her nipple and sucks, grazing his teeth over it, wanting to bite down so badly it makes him ache and react by licking back up her chest. He smells her, wants to taste her, more of her, but this is the extent of it tonight.

She fumbles for his belt again, finishing what she started by pushing his pants down until they fall on the floor with a muted sound, stroking him momentarily--this is her permission.

When he’s inside her, he waits. With eyes shut, he revels in the feel her wet and tight around his cock and revels in the measured breaths she exhales against his shoulder.

He moves once, gripping her thighs firmly, feeling himself grow even harder when she turns her head and groans against his pulse point.

He pulls back enough to see her face before he buries himself inside her and she’s looking right back at him, now gripping the edge of the table with both hands as he continues, deeply and firmly but unhurried--simply effective enough.

He offers her his hand, the two digits that were inside her moments ago and she takes them in her mouth without hesitation, holding him at the wrist as she licks them clean, moaning as she does so and he thrusts harder.

A bead of sweat appears along his hairline, a strand of hair falls forward over his eye while she remains impeccable, save for her flushed cheeks and chest.

With a groan, he claims her mouth, now that she’s relinquished control, it’s all right. His kisses are rougher, unapologetic and unforgiving. She falls right into it, her hips driving forward to meet his, her mouth opening wider, swallowing every groan, muffling her own moans of pleasure as the pressure begins to build between them.

The table’s legs scratch the floor, but the sound is barely audible under their mutual sound of release.

They’re equally breathless when it’s over. Mozart continues to play effortlessly in the background as Hannibal helps Bedelia off the table and she replies with a polite, “Thank you”.

He combs his hair back, readjusts himself and instantly, they begin to clear the table.

There is no fuss between them, no awkward averting of gazes or uncomfortable small talk. They’re colleagues who understand each other in more ways than anyone else would ever dare to. And this, well it’s just dinner.


End file.
